


The five times Don and Ian are doing it in a FBI closet and the one time they don't

by ChatDeLaMort



Series: The way to love has speed bumps on it [2]
Category: Numb3rs
Genre: Friends With Benefits, M/M, Mentioning Colby, Stress Relief, sex in a closet, sex in a fbi closet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 21:56:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4682810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChatDeLaMort/pseuds/ChatDeLaMort
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A 5+1!</p><p>Don is stressed and Ian helps him relaxing. Because they are friends. Friends help each other. And so the having-sex-thing starts again...</p><p>Rated for language and the tiniest mention of having sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The five times Don and Ian are doing it in a FBI closet and the one time they don't

I.

 

The first time they fuck in the closet at the end of the 5th floor, it happens more by accident than anyhow planned. Don became used to back out when his anger or frustration (or whatever distracting feeling came along) threatened to interfere with his ability to think straight. Stepping out, escaping in the rarely used, small room on the even rarer visited floor for supplies and copy machines, allowed hime some private time to rearrange himself. There, in the dusty darkness, he presses his head against the cooling metal of one of the racks trying to sort his thoughts, to calm his breath and his way too often too high blood pressure by whispering the same fifteen words all over again. It's a ritual once a rabbi has shown him when he was very much younger, a verse from the Talmud which he repeats until his whole body pulses in a single beat, relieved and liberated from the headache-causing world. The time he saw a _shul_ from the inside is long gone but the ritual still gives him a comforting peace.

 

The current case is heavy, not particular because of it's cruelty (although the corpses did _bathe_ in their own blood) but because of the enormous number of victims: thirteen human souls, a whole family, extinguished in a minute by a lunatic neighbour. The lunatic neighbour Don has to interrogate, has to bear to listen to, to all the paranoid crap about being chosen by Moses he drivels to himself. It seems he didn't even notice when Don left the office and ordered David to take over this charade of an interrogation.

 

He _thirsts_ for silence and a moment of reason.

 

It's the first time he gets interrupted before he can even finish the first line. The door swings open and a tall man sidles through it, smooth, lithe and lissom, a dim aura of menace radiating around him. He doesn't care to knock first as well as he doesn't care to explain Don why he's even here, in this room, in this city, in this state. His eyes are asking "Will you tell me?" and Don's answer is simple.

 

They don't kiss.

 

They crash.

 

They conquer.

 

Don's lips clash with Ian's mouth in a desperate hunger that takes both by surprise, his left hand buried deep in the other man's thick hair forcing him into the physical contact, the right arm around the waist holding him tight like he is drowning in the closeness.

 

Aroused Don is a tempest, ripping down his and the other one's walls, leaving both behind nude and vulnerable, reduced to their deepest traces of being and existing. When Don lets go his mind, when he dives into his instincts, he doesn't take prisoners. Most people in his life has been afraid of this version of him, too intense, too all-consuming is his presence in this very moments, too much of him then poisoning the other one's Self.

 

Ian has never been most people. If Don was a tempest, he'd be a blaze, taking posession of everything and everyone by a simple touch, encasing them with the brightest, most bewitching flames one could imagine, lets them dance and sing and feel invicible, incredible and oh so powerful – to finally bring them down to their knees, head low with an amazed smile on their lips, the mind filled with an eager wish to serve and submit while burning down to ashes and bones because in the end nobody ever will be strong enough to endure him in his truest form.

 

They aren't meant to fit, neither to _merge_. Their very first collision was unknown ground for both of them who were used and so overfed to overwhelm anyone with their bare presence, to demand and recieve control over their opposite in a blink.

 

It has been a long time since then, since they knew the other one's body and desires as well as their own, so at first they struggle, sort themselves and legs and arms and mouths in the ferocious attempt to reconnect to a comprehension of the other one's developement.

 

So much has changed.

 

Their bodies did change, new scars over old wounds, new stories, new losses; Ian a little skinnier than twelve years before, Don a little softer.

 

They did change. Don's not the the overly enthusiastic, burning young Agent Greenhorn anymore and Ian stopped counting his kills long ago.

 

Their desires has changed, from the impatient, ardent careless fucking with the devil-may-care-attitude in scruffy motel showers or under the stars of Montana, Kentucky, Idaho to a slower, nonetheless just as well perfervidly, skillful act of lust.

 

What hasn't change is Ian's grip on Don's neck when he turns him around, presses him against the wall, his hand firm but nearly tenderly caressing the spot he shortly after will sink his teeth into. It's part of their encounter, always has been, an urgent need Ian never dared to explain and Don never occured to ask, although he isn't quite fond of getting marked; it's Ian's price. And he's worth it.

 

What hasn't change is their after shave and Ian's dog-like sniffing on Don's skin, his inhaling and the following relief as if he'd truely remember Don only by the scent of mint and musk. People tend to call Ian a lone wolf but Don's sure _people_ doesn't know how right they are.

 

The act himself is less constructed, less formal: a sharp noise of ripped-up foil, the smell of durex and lube and sweat and suddenly Ian fumbles for his way into him, one hand at his throat, his head resting on Don's shoulder, gasping hot breath over his skin.

 

They look for nothing but some moments of peace and find the conclusion that right now the other one might be the only one who understands.

 

 

II.

 

The second time Don already waits for him in the closet, not sure if Ian will come, will have read the unspoken invitation in his eyes when he left the interrogation room, left Ian and the teenage boy, this _child_ , behind, painfully aware what he demands, what he _orders_ Ian to do because he can't handle doing it himself.

 

But the door opens and Ian has him pinned against the wall faster than he could ask if he is okay.

 

The man's hand smells like pain, his eyes black and bitter and spiced with a spark of odd arousal he let slip as a concession to their deep-digging trust. There is no regret in his bare-laid soul nor sorrow nor remorse, neither to be seen nor to be found: Ian's not that kind of man. He's seen worse. He's done worse. The ugly truth is that his grief only comes from knowing he isn't able to feel sorrow. From knowing he should be. Wondering sometimes what it is that makes him so different.

 

Don is one of the very few who know because Don doesn't give a shit. Doesn't mind to be friends with a sociopath – and whom is he kidding, what else could he call his lacking ability for repentance. Don doesn't care at all, doesn't hesitate to be near such a man, to touch him and to allow him to stop pretending. Ian's sure the feelings towards his friend are just in the nature of friendship, but he never felt closer to anyone else.

 

His eyes glimm, before he closes them and sinks deep into the rhythm of thrusting and gasping, like he holds himself up to that.

 

Don doesn't ask. He lets the hands who know torture and pain and _killing_ so well caress his skin carefully, cautiously, lets the other man's teeth again sink deep into his neck, lets him mark his body as his property. He crossed a line some minutes ago Ian surely had already crossed long time before but he desperately needs to be reassured he is still a human being.

 

He mouths a silent promise against Ian's sweat-damping skin who acts like he would not understand every single word. For a moment Don loves him for this.

 

 

III.

 

The third time it is just fucking for fun. Case solved, nobody harmed – it once was their way of celebrating their succes.

 

So it's kissing and licking, hands over skin over beard stubbles over chest muscles, fingers finding fingers finding entrance finding that one point Don still answers to with a silent gasp and a shudder. Ian smiles in secret.

 

Nowadays they don't bother anymore to ask why they are still doing this.

 

 

IV.

 

The fourth time Don needs to hear Ian's beating heart because he is so scared to fall apart, so lost in the cascade of emotions that he longs for a hand in his back keeping him standing. Charlie is in hospital, shot in the leg at an out-of-control kidnapping scene, not life-threatening but Colby is there, too, after taking the rest of the bullets in an attempt to shield Charlie at any cost, as well as the seven-years-old kidnapping victim, both struggling for life in the operation room and that is more than Don thought he could ever cope with.

 

David banned him from the hospital when he screamed at the nurses. He doesn't know where elso to go than vanishing into his closet where the air tasted well-known musky and nobody hears him cry. He doesn't know what else to do than praying without remembering how.

 

But Ian is there as always and as always without any explanation how he even knew about the shooting, holding Don, grounding him, _fixing_ him in his own silent way full of touches and whispers. And Don throws himself into the embrace like an addict, starving for the moment of belonging somewhere that tilts the pain and the sorrow and the fear.

 

Ian knows, somehow knows when it's too much, when Don passed the point of enduring and is left defenseless to the insufferableness of feeling, but he nevertheless pushes further, deeper, relentlessly ignoring the trembles that shake his friend. Don could stop him with the slightest whispered "no", could end all of it, release himself and rest in the sparkling nirvana of an orgasm. But every move of Ian's fingers writes an promise on his skin, prints the assurance onto him that he knows Don's limits, knows them better than Don himself and they aren't reached yet.

 

In blind, desperate trust Don falls into Ian's warm, blissful affection because he doesn't see how else to cope with all of this, what else to do against the paralysing fear and agony that comes with the hapless waiting for news from the hospital. Patience is none of his virtues and the awareness that he can't do anything right now almost kills his sanity.

 

He is so panic-stricken that at first he doesn't hear the loudly buzzing phone. Ian grabs for it like a starving man (hiding behind a relaxed, unobtrusive smile that couldn't fool Don for a second) and visibly removes the tension in his shoulders while reading the message before handing it back to him.

 

"Colby's out of surgery right now. The doctors say he'll live. David"

 

Relief rushes through Don's veins and bursts in a helpless, sudden noise out of his mouth, half cry and half chuckle. When he looks up, Ian's eyes are black of arousal. "I need to fuck you." he murmurs with a husky voice and without waiting for an answer, he spins Don around, simultaneosly bites sharp into his neck and presses a finger into him.

 

It's the first time Ian doesn't hold back anymore, ravages with an intensity and strength and cruelty it makes Don shudder when he later recalls the session inspecting his bruises and black and blue marks. For the moment he gives himself all in, welcomes it with a hunger for life in his heart he can't and won't completely explain himself.

 

For once the world seems peaceful enough to not feel guilty about not giving a fuck about worrying anymore.

 

 

V.

 

The fifth time they are drunk of nostalgia and good whiskey. They stumble into the office in suits they only wear at funerals like the one they just fled from, toasting to a friend who got shot seven times in his career and finally died on the eighth, his own, after he was diagnosed with terminal illness. Here's to the living, here's to the feeling of _being so alive_.

 

When Don tastes the Whiskey on Ian's lips he knows that this will be their last encounter of this kind. He has seen the emptiness growing in Ian's eyes, has felt the slipping power in Ian's hands. And he fears the fact that Ian seems so used to such an amount of alcohol that he doesn't appear to be drunk at all.

 

He is too good at reading people to not acknowledge how Ian's heart got lost. And how scared Ian is fighting against it.

 

This time will be the last and then sober Future-Don will find a way to force Ian into happiness.

 

It's their last time and, damned, he will make it count.

 

 

VI.

 

And then, for the first time, Don already catches Ian at the parking lot.

 

"Hey, Ian."

 

The sniper turns around, the eyes hidden by a pompous sun glass. Don is sure Ian already knows given the hint of a wistful smile that scurries over his mouth. Of course, he knows. The conversation about it only takes a minute.

 

They both know this is right and the only choice. They both knew from the beginning it had a limit, like the last time. This doesn't need to be discussed.

 

But then Don's last words take Ian by surprise. "I think you should stop staring at Colby. Ask him out."

 

Ian's poker face stays unmoved but Don knows him long enough to see the smallest of reactions to the outspoken name. It's all the answer he needs to be assured he was right with his assumption.

 

"I know how you look at Colby. And I know he looks the same at you. Why don't you get your pretty ass out in the sun and catch yourself an agent? You'd... be good for each other."

 

Ian smiles, obviously feeling caught red-handed but amused and with a glimpse of guarded emotion. "You know that I don't need your blessing, Donnieboy?"

 

Don only laughs. "But he thinks he does."

**Author's Note:**

> My first 5+1!! I always loved the challenge and possibilities of 5+1's and now I finally found an idea for my own :)!
> 
> This story can be read as a stand-alone or as a sequel to "Not the candy type" and in the timeline next to "Born to obey".
> 
> Thanks a lot for all the kudos, especially the ones for "Not the candy type" (I still love this story). I'm relly thrilled by every new hit, every kudo. It truely means a lot to me!!


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